Buried

Chapter 7 - Remember

2008-10-28T14:01:00.000-07:00

"Stratholme."

Luth started. She found herself in a forest. It was dark, cold, and appeared to be snowing. In front of her strode a lightly-robed and emaciated figure. "What?" she asked, confused.

"Stratholme. You asked where we were going," the sing-song voice returned. "It will be a long journey, but an important one, I assure you."

Even from behind, Luth could see the frost on Hazel's breath, shooting out in front of her as the words were spoken, remeniscent of a Gnomish device Luth remembered seeing as a child. It was some sort of "vehicle," the gnome, whose name had been Sputnik, had said. "Like a horse, only noisier, and more efficient." His ramblings delved so deeply into jargon after that point she thought the diminuitive fellow was speaking another language.

Luth could feel herself smiling. Abruptly, her mind recoiled then, confused. She remembered falling...the blackness that surrounded her...the ghoul's claws tearing into her face...

She came to her senses again after a time, having fallen to one knee. To either side of her view, her strands of hair dipped down towards the ground. She could see that a layer of snow had begun to cover the forest floor.

Lifting her gaze, she met the eyes of Hazel, the fellow Forsaken's ghostlight eyes looking back at her. Hazel was in a kneeling position, also on one knee. "You are a wreck," she said then, calmly, the pitch modulation in her voice carrying her tone from giddy to deadpan at a moment's notice.

Luth averted her gaze back to the dirt. Her thoughts were garbled, memories came darting forth unbidden from her subconscious, but nothing so prominent that she could so much as focus on it. She closed her eyes, then, trying to grasp at the present, to return her mind to a state of cognition. The noise in her mind seemed to grow louder, and she could feel herself squinting, straining as though under some unbearable weight. One concept she noted was that though her Forsaken body felt so strong, her mind was terribly weak. The thought appeared for an instant but was quickly lost to the storm.

She was wrought back to the present then, feeling hands at her cheeks. Hands that felt like ice. She blinked her eyes open to see Hazel there, a vaguely concerned expression evident in a frown. The concern Luth discovered there reminded her of her mother holding one of Luth's toys between her hands, a doll whose arm had come loose. She remembered her parents' farmhouse, not far from the city, one her father had built. In Luth's bedroom there was a window that looked out over a shallow stream which ran behind that house. She remembered playing in it with her brother, who always wanted to be a sailor.

Tyrem joined the Navy as soon as he came of age. Not a year later, the Wars began. Stories of vicious battles frought with magic filtered into the town of Strahnbrad as wounded soldiers returned from the battlefields. Luth remembered seeing elves for the first time as she snuck away from home, then fifteen years of age, to watch a large group of soldiers marching south through town. The Quel'dorei bowmen stoically marched behind most of the more nervous-looking human footmen.

One day not long thereafter, a grave-faced messenger arrived with a letter stamped with the seal of the Alliance...

She felt Hazel's cold hands, cupped firmly at her cheeks, as they shook her head from side to side. Luth's tears frosted as they met Hazel's icy hands. "By the Queen," Hazel uttered, taking her hands away as she stood. Obviously frustrated though her voice did not intone as much, "We need to move. Enough with this chicanery." She sounded suspiciously delighted and yet her voice wavered its way into abject animosity as she continued.

Luth stood as well, though her conscious mind was still boiling over. She began to walk again, her posture bereft of any semblence of confidence. She trailed in the footsteps of her impatient and impromptu comrade, fighting to take the reins of the runaway animal that was her mind. She tried to focus on her surroundings...the cold air, the howling wind, the clunking sound of her armor with every step she took. All of these were transient moments of relief, quickly buried beneath the quicksand trauma she was experiencing mentally.

The two wandered on through the night, hindered by nothing, save for Luthehza's constant mental frailty. Hazel silently wondered how the other woman would usher in such a victory for the Forsaken, what with her collapsing every hundred steps or so.

As dawn approached, light illuminated the skies but did not break through the clouds, and the snow continued to fall. The two Forsaken came to a road which wound through the forest, snaking along through the foothills. They turned north at a fork and continued without pause.

In the night's wake, physically still able to plod along in the yet still darkened morning, Luthehza could see the road and noted some familiarities in the positions of the trees, subtleties in the way the road turned this way and that.

"This is the road to Strahnbrad," she said suddenly, staring straight ahead, maintaining her pace.

Hazel turned to look at her, curious, before dismissing the comment as Luth's apparently persistent insanity and followed the road as before in silence.

The wind picked up, and it kept snowing.

Chapter 6 - The Dream

2008-04-22T14:19:00.000-07:00

author's note: I stream of consciousness'd most of this and it will need editing and such, but it's been so long since the last chapter I thought I'd put it out there anyway.

Luth stood alone upon a hilltop, weapons sheathed at her sides, the moon shining brightly and illuminating the landscape. The Tirisfal sky tinted everything a sickly gray-green, even the stars, a few of which could be seen that night through the clouds. Wind kicked up from the north, blowing Luth's hair forward.

With sudden surprise, Luth looked around, to her sides and behind her. In front of her, in the distance, was the city of Lordaeron. A cobbled road curved around the hill upon which she stood, winding its way through the landscape to the city. Lordaeron's walls gave way to the entrance to the courtyard, which meant that she was facing the south.

Glancing about, to her left she could see the zeppelin tower, a converted watchtower that served as transportation between here and the Orcish cities of Grom'gol and their capital of Orgrimmar. To her right, the forested west. In that direction was the Forsaken town of Deathknell, where many of the Queen's subjects have come to be since the end of the war.

Finally, behind her, was the town of Brill. She saw ramshackle and decrepit buildings, as well as heard the shambling sounds of the Forsaken going about their respective businesses. She remembered then, the initial work she had done. Some of her first missions as a soldier of the Forsaken were to attack the Scarlet Crusade which had worked its way into the Glades.

That was three years ago. She could remember the grip of the blade she used then, an unremarkable but trustworthy weapon. Luth knew not where she had acquired it, but it had been with her from her first moments of consciousness as a Forsaken.

Consciousness? It could hardly be called that. She was the Queen's servant from day one.

She drew one of her blades then. "Am I in control?" she asked herself. Eyeing the blade carefully, her gaze extending from the hilt up to the pointed end, she, still holding the sword in front of her, gazed past it into the distance. She saw Lordaeron. Upon the wall's battlements she saw movement. Luth squinted.

They moved slowly, but the figures she saw appeared to be humanoid. Then, she could make out a larger figure...probably twelve feet tall...with wings.

"A Dreadlord?" she thought. "One of the Nathrezim?"

Luth tried to focus, but everything grew more blurry. She shook her head then, and tried again, but to no avail.

Suddenly, the wall's gates spewed forth a host of humanoid figures. Amongst them were very large, bulbous shapes that strode with difficulty, seemingly dragging their monstrous girth, using momentum more than anything to carry them forward. This was an army of undead she saw.

Behind her then, just as suddenly, was another army. She immediately noticed banshees among Forsaken men and women, and in the front, marching towards her, was Sylvanas Windrunner. To her sides were two figures; the first, a human man, astride a warhorse. He held his helm under his arm while he directed the animal with his other hand. His expression had a definite air of pomp and haughtiness that betrayed his name: Lord Garithos, the man who estranged the remaining High Elves from the Alliance, and then helped Sylvanas take Lordaeron under the pretense of his being allowed to have the kingdom as his own once the Burning Legion's forces were purged.

As if that weren't surprising enough, to the Queen's right was Varimathras, the Nathrezim who defected to Sylvanas' side in exchange for his life. The demon's wings gave him an impressive visage, and his burning eyes and obvious fangs gave credence to his race's reputation of cruelty and malice.

If Varimathras was here, however...that meant that the Dreadlord she witnessed on the city's battlements was one still under the command of the Legion.

"What is this?" Luth thought. And then Sylvanas met her gaze.

"Luthehza, I trust everything is ready?" the Banshee Queen asked, her multi-toned voice audible over the marching army.

"Yes," she heard herself say, without intending to say anything, sword still held in front of her.

"Then we attack," was Sylvanas' reply. She glanced to and fro at Garithos and Varimathras, who descended into the Queen's army to make whatever preparations were necessary.

The host was assembled then, standing just behind her, and Sylvanas was nowhere to be seen. Her gaze was fixed upon the gathering force at the city and the defenses assembled nearby. Thousands upon thousands of undead and demons were arrayed before her, and she stood at the forefront of just as many at her apparent command.

A silence leveled itself over her thoughts. The night sky of Tirisfal grew dark, and Luthehza could sense nothing, not even the air around her. She blinked and shook her head, trying to regain her wits. They would not return, and the blackness ensued.

She reached out in all directions, and could feel nothing. She thought to crouch, to get closer to the ground, but then that gave way to nothing as well. She began to fall...and Luth could feel fear.

She screamed as she descended through the black, flailing madly at the nothing that surrounded her. She noticed then that her armor and weapons had been replaced by a white dress, one which did not seem to be affected by her fall and remained about her legs as though she were not moving at all. Her hair, she could feel, rested lightly at the sides of her face, and felt clean and groomed. She beheld her arms and hands...the skin at her elbows was there, and alive, her fingers were human instead of monstrous and clawed. She felt her face then, frantically touching at her cheeks and forehead. Her skin felt normal to the touch, and warm...she felt eyelids, could see the eyelashes...she no longer felt the sense of free-fall that she had before, but in spite of all of this, the fear remained. And it grew. The dark began to swallow her, she could no longer see or feel anything...

Then, the world returned. The green sky of Tirisfal was there, but in front of her now, not 40 yards away, were the walls of Lordaeron. She was falling again.

Looking down, Luth saw the Legion's army there. Hundreds of ghouls littered the landscape. Her swords were drawn, and her armor was there, clenched tightly in her hands above her head. She was not falling...she had jumped, and was descending upon her enemies.

She felt the air rushing past her as one ghoul in particular was brought to the focus of her attention. Her descent ended simultaneously with its destruction, her blade cleaving the undead from shoulder to hip. Luth landed squarely, and her warpath commenced.

Immediately, she spun and hacked off the arm of another ghoul, and ended that spiral with a stab that ran her other blade through the chest of another. The warrior spun in the opposite direction, cleaving another ghoul across the chest. She darted forward, dodging the raking claws of one and bringing her elbow into its jaw. This did not faze the creature, but the ensuing stab through the throat did.

She felt the nearby earth rumble then, and, reacting quickly, dove to the side. A weapon which could only be described as a butcher's cleaver punched its way into the earth were she stood then, and as she ended the dive in a roll into a squatting position and looked up, she could see that her attacker was now one of the Legion's abominations, its innards spewing forth from an opening in its abdomen. Bits of flesh draped over unjoined ribs. These creatures struck fear into the human forces they were originally created to destroy, but Luth only saw a construct that would require more than one attack to bring down.

Wasting no time, she lept straight at the thing, which was still hunched from its previous downward attack. As she hurtled through the air, she drove her swords into the undead's shoulders and bringing her face very close to its own.

Predictably, the abomination reared back to a standing position, momentum which Luthehza used to arc herself over the head to the creature's back. With acrobatic precision, she flipped and, yanking her weapons back out as she did, landed on her feet behind it.

She was now surrounded by the Legion's undead forces and cut off a bit from those of the Queen. Again with cold-blooded precision, she spun, bringing down another pair of ghouls and cutting large gashes into the abomination's back before it hand a chance to turn around, a laborious process for these monsters.

Pain seized her then as she felt claws dig into her left shoulder. She grunted and spun again, using her elbow to knock the creature back and then cleave its head from its shoulders with a vicious swing of one sword.

The abominations were mindless beings animated by necromancy much like ghouls. Large constructs built from the flesh of the dead, they were near-impervious to conventional attacks due to their thick hides. Simple stabs and slashes would not bring them down. This one turned and swung downward again, an attack Luth deftly but narrowly avoided by pivoting slightly on her feet. Luth used the momentum from that maneuver to cut upward, severing the beast's arm, which fell limp from the rest of the creature's body, disgusting, pungent liquid spewing onto the ground.

"Is this a dream?" she thought to herself then. But there was no time to muse. All she knew was that she did not feel as though she were in control, and yet, unlike previous combats she had been in, Luthehza, the Champion of the Forsaken, was not present.

Undaunted, the abomination drew back again. It still had two arms, one "normal" arm carrying a massive chain which, in addition to being very barbed at every link, ended in a vicious sickle. The other hand, extending from an arm that grew from the creature's shoulder on the same side, held a small sickle, with which it could attack foes if it drew near the ground as it was wont to do after a normal attack.

After her previous strike, Luth was off-balance, a costly mistake which worked to the abomination's advantage. She could only watch as the creature's face appeared to grin wickedly as it brought the chain back in order to swing it around at her. Luckily, the chain caught itself on a nearby zombie ally of the constructed horror, barbed pieces of metal piercing undead flesh as the zombie screeched in surprise (or, possibly, pain). The extra milliseconds bought Luth enough time to lean back completely as the sickled chain, and the attached zombie, cut just over her. The zombie was disconnected from the barbs then, and was sent sailing into a nearby rank of other miscellaneous undead, knocking many of them over.

As Luth landed on her back, the abomination's other hand bearing the smaller sickle bore down upon her. She deflected the blow with an upward swing of her left arm, her sword knocking the blade away. Luth carried that motion through, swinging with her other sword, aiming to sever that arm as well.

Then, everything became slow. A haze set itself over her eyes, and the world became a blur. Her consciousness remained steady, unfettered, but she could not see clearly. Luth felt the onset of pressure in her right arm indicating that her blade had caught something, but she could not tell what. Anticipating another attack, and requiring balance, Luth brought her arms behind her head, kicking her legs up and somersaulting high through the air backwards and back onto her feet...landing amongst a number of presences she knew not whether to be friend or foe.

She could see enough to make out basic shapes and colors, but unfortunately everything was she could see was humanoid by that account. She was set upon immediately, and, reacting purely defensively, she fought her attackers back. However, that had her continually off-guard, and many clawed hands were nearly striking true. She fought hard, mentally and physically, trying to remain in control. A bony, clawed hand covered her face, nails digging into her cheek. She spun, trying to bring her sword down upon her attacker...

...and her blade connected with nothing. Everything went black. Again, she was in the white garment from before, falling. She appeared to be alive...she reached for her face, where she could still feel the claws pierce her skin...the flesh was whole and unmarred.

"This must be a dream!" she thought. But it felt so real, so similar to everything she had known for so long. The only difference...

...she knew what was going on. She was not in control but she did not feel the hatred. The Banshee Queen's presence did not seem to reside within her.

She fell and fell through the black emptiness for what felt like hours.

When the world returned again, she was face to face with the abomination, her swords gone. She was down on one knee, using one hand for support, blood soaking her vision. She felt no pain, but could do nothing but watch as the gigantic undead brought the sickle back yet again, a very satisfied look on its face as it prepared for the killing blow. The world slowed again and blurred, and she closed her eyes as the weapon came around.

"Wake up..."

Chapter 5 - Alone

2007-12-28T12:38:00.000-08:00

"Death becomes you, servant," uttered a deep voice in the dark.

The moon shone brightly that night. Devoid of clouds, the sky was littered with countless pinpoints of starlight. A canopy of treetops pierced that sky from below, a pine forest growing amongst the foothills of a nearby mountain range. Rocks jutted from the earth, making for interesting footing, and many places to hide. Darkness pervaded the area.

It was cold. Winter was near. Bone-piercing chills swept lazily through the air, and in the distance one could make out clouds. Snowfall seemed imminent, soon to cascade down upon the landscape from the mountains.

Looking down from the trees, a clearing formed amongst them. On one of the rocks a human figure lay flat, exposed to the moonlight. It lay spread eagle, both arms outstretched, as though it had recently suffered a fall. However, weapons extended from both hands, longswords carried by this cloaked and armored figure.

Stepping forward from the darkness between trees then was another human figure. The shadows seemed to warp around this one, as though it were made of them. He wore robed garments, a hood cloaking most of his face. Shining through though were a pair of ghostlight eyes, a signature feature of the Forsaken. His breath chilled before him, escaping his lungs to the cruel fate the late-autumn air had in store for it.

"Your recklessness has proven your downfall," it spoke again. The standing man strode forward slowly, carefully choosing his steps amongst the precarious footing of the rocks. He continued, "Your prowess is easily side-stepped by the more cunning."

A howling wind picked up, blowing through the forest, causing the tall pines to sway and creak. The rustling sounds of foliage being moved against its will became a cacophony of whispers, each one trying to voice its complaint louder than the next.

The man continued to step forward while the figure on the rock laid still. Drawing closer, the feminine features of the dormant one became noticeable. A satisfied grin shone on the shadowy man's face, white teeth sparkling in the night.

"A pity," he continued. "I had expected some challenge from one of your notoriety, Champion Luthehza." He voice the girl's title mockingly, as though to provoke the other into action.

But she did not move. She appeared not to be breathing, as her chest did not move and any condensation of her breath was not to be seen.

The man frowned then, punctuated by a narrowing of the eyes and the disappearance of his teeth from view. "Majis brun'ure," he uttered words of dark magic, waving a skeletal arm in Luthehza's direction, the wide opening of the end of the sleeve drooping towards the ground. The shadows of the night weaved themselves around the man's hand, infusing them with power.

Nothing happened but for a loud moaning from the trees in the wind. The girl lay still, save for an errant rustling of her long hair.

The man slumped his shoulders then. He pulled his hood back, exposing a bald scalp and cold, blue-white skin. His face in a perpetual scowl, he walked swiftly to where the girl lay. "Too easy," he muttered, disappointed, as he closed range with the dead girl. "Death becomes you, indeed..." he whispered to himself, testing his footing before choosing his path.

Just then, his gaze temporarily averted, her eyes flashed open, their own yellow ghostlight shining brightly. In a veritable blur of motion, she jumped to her feet and set herself charging full bore to where the man stood. Her purple strands of hair lashed out behind her, and her expression went from one of dead calm to one of seething rage, and in her charge could be heard a noticeable, menacing growl. Swords at the ready, she shot forth.

Reactively, he screamed. Not from the lungs, but with his mind, aiming to strike fear into her. A foolish endeavor, she ignored the psychic attack completely, her inborn Forsaken willpower shirking the assault.

She was upon him within a matter of a second's time, traversing the distance between them with horrible speed and precision, her plated, skeletal feet clattering on the rocky terrain. She bull-rushed him, a plated shoulder slamming into his chest, knocking him to the ground and sending him skidding back roughly along the earth.

His view affixed on the sky now, he could see the moon shining brightly above along with the stars. Before he could bring himself to stand, the moon was abruptly blocked from his view by that of Luth. She was descending upon him, sword held above her, poised to swing in a vicious downward chop.

He laid on his back and called forth the power of his own soul to protect him, thrusting his hand upwards, palm held out towards her and fingers stretched outward. A thin, nigh-visible barrier formed then in front of him.

Luth fell full-force on this barrier, and her blade may as well have been trying to cut into a stone wall. Her body slammed into the shield, a burst of light shooting forth from that which the man had summoned to his aid. Luth turned her momentum to her side then, and lept off the man's body, landing on her feet in a patch of exposed sand, kicking up a small storm of dust.

Before she could regain sufficient balance, however, the man jumped to his feet and raised his arms upward. He called the shadows down upon her, and they answered quickly. A veil of darkness descended then, winding down around her and sinking in before detonating in an explosion of pain. She called out and fell to one knee, placing a hand on the ground for support.

Her opponent breathed heavily then. The powers he had summoned had weakened him visibly. But the fight was not yet done. With her in this weakened state, he called again upon the shadows, this time reaching out towards the kneeling girl's mind. He conjured forth a psychic whirlwind of blades, knives, and daggers, and focused that pain along a shred of darkness aimed for the collapsed warrior. The spell connected, piercing through to her core with sufficient effort.

Luth's armor offered no protection against this power. Only the solidarity of her mind could save her...and that was something she lacked completely. Her inner self, the shrouded one that was buried beneath hatred and torment suffered the blows, and was far too weak to combat it. The whirlwind enveloped upon her, cutting at her flesh. She screamed, crying out for help. She could feel tears rolling down her cheeks, though if they were real or merely imagined she could not tell. The blades drew closer, and each implement began cutting away, flaying at her subconscious mind. She was trapped within them in a sea of nothing, and her only feeling was pain.

She tried to ignore it. She gritted her teeth and strained against it, trying to focus on the hate that had fueled her to this point as she was flayed alive in her mind's eye. It did not answer. Her body's muscles began to give way, and she dropped both weapons to the ground. The blades continued their assault, gnawing away at exposed skin, eroding her mind away. The pain was unbearable.

Her cries grew louder. The shadowed man concentrated further on his spell, driving the pain deeper. Each further second of effort resulted in yet more agony. The high-pitched and fevered sound of metal blades scraping against one another was all she could hear.

She could not fight it off. She began to cease her struggle. After a short time, she had no feeling left to give, and numbness slowly conquered both the pain and the incessant cutting and slashing sounds. Again in her dying moments, much as before, she became herself. Luthehza the warrior melted away, leaving Luthehza the frightened and lost girl behind to face whatever peril awaited her.

Her body fell again, this time to both knees. She hunched over her legs, staring at the ground in front of her. Much to her surprise, as the numbness had just begun to encroach, she began to feel the cool wind against her skin, the night air filling her decayed lungs. She beheld her hands, dead flesh draped about bony fingers extended to deadly points.

The man ceased his spell. His glowing eyes betrayed a quizzical expression. Standing there, he was a figure of pure shadow, his eyes the only indication of any presence at all.

She expected at this point, as was the case in the past, for the Banshee Queen to arrive in her thoughts, and infuse her with the willpower necessary to stand again. To recharge her with the Queen's purpose.

She waited. The Queen did not come.

Her eyes darted to the side in thought, away from her hands which had wrought so much hurt. The flaying having ceased, she was again in control.

As the night wore on, clouds had begun to move in, shielding the sky from the peering eyes of those below. The world grew a bit darker.

The other Forsaken seemed to sense this confusion in her at last. He began to stride towards her again, albeit more cautiously, with less confidence than before. He came at an angle, his head turned towards her as he walked perpendicular to her gaze. "The Queen cannot save you this time," he rasped, breathing heavily. "You are alone, Luthehza. Death," he said again, this time with a pause for breath, "becomes you."

The wind slowed a bit then, and quietly droned away until it was gone. No sound could be heard then except for the man's breathing and footsteps. Oblivious to the battle taking place, snowflakes began to fall.

She looked up then, her hair draping over her eyes. She made no hostile movement, but her opponent stopped in his tracks and merely observed her for the time being, another frown shaping his expression.

Luth looked to the sky. As though the stars were seeking refuge from some oppression above, numerous white pinpoints of light shone through the pervasive dark. They glimmered brightly to her eyes, and some shred of reason within her knew they could not be stars but instead the snow, but reason could not trouble her now. Despite the imminent danger, she let closed her eyes and just felt. More overwhelming than any pain she suffered now was just how good the cold felt compared to the white-hot rage to which she was accustomed.

The Forsaken man she had been fighting remained there, obviously confused. His curiosity having the better of him, he just observed. He remained tense however, hoping to be ready to react should any harm threaten him. And he had good reason to believe it would, as the woman's gaze lowered from the sky to him, and her eyes opened.

She spoke, calmly, almost forlornly. "I am alone."

Again, in a flash of movement, this time before her opponent could react, she picked up her swords, stood, and charged forward, hurling one of her blades with all of her might and momentum. Her ghastly thin build belied much of her strength, and the blade flew true, and so quickly that the man could not step out of the way. He had barely enough time to bring his arms forward, but it was too late to utter a spell of protection.

It cut into his chest from the pointed end all the way to the hilt. Hit brutally by the force of the attack, he spun in the air, landing on his back five feet from where he stood. He laid there, immediately dead, blood seeping from the wound into the earth.

There was a pause then, before the howling wind returned. Luth stood there, feeling it. She closed her eyes, the wind blowing her hair into her eyes yet more.

"Luthehza..."

Startled by the intrusion, Luth readied her blade and stood with knees bent, anticipating another attack.

That was not the Queen's voice, she thought. She had never been in control of herself for so long, and the rage that fueled her was not there to support her. She felt weary, and her breathing grew more labored by the minute.

The windy air grew colder then. Icy chills swarmed her, cutting to her bones. The wind maligned the weather, and the snowflakes seemed to become minuscule weapons, an entire army of tiny throwing stars. The peacefulness of the night gone completely, Luth sensed another presence. Her gaze darted about, but her perceptions were dulled by exhaustion.

Her eyes caught on then, another pair of ghostlight eyes in the darkness nearby. She fought to retain her stance, one she knew from instinct after years of combat and swordsmanship. She wondered for but a moment where she had attained these skills in the first place, but shook such thoughts away quickly. Perhaps there would be time to muse later.

The eyes seemed to move closer, indicating a figure stepping forward. The voice came again, from the figure's direction. A feminine voice, sounding much like her own, spoke, "I mean you no harm on this night. You may rest." The tone in the words struck her as strange, it seemed whimsical, and as the second sentence finished an inflection was placed on the last word such that it almost sounded like a question.

Luth frowned, exhaustion slowly transforming into an overwhelming drowsiness. She returned, "I...do not...know, or trust...you," she said, empty of any confidence or forcefulness. She was losing control, but fighting for every bit of it. "Who..." she began, but it was just too much. Luthehza collapsed, her sword clattering on a nearby rock.

The other Forsaken woman stepped into what little light there was then, and the cold air wrapped around her much as shadows swayed to the beck and call of the slain man nearby. Where Luth's breath became visible through condensation in front of her, this woman's very presence seemed to bring an icy sheen to everything nearby.

Her hair was a pale blue, and her skin shone of a death far more cold than any Forsaken Luth had ever previously seen, stark white and hued with blue. Her garments were white and blue as well, she wore a long robe that covered her from shoulders to feet, but was otherwise unclothed, her forearms and everything from neck up exposed to the harsh cold that was coming from the mountains.

Luth laid there, still breathing, but nearly unconscious, out of strength.

"My name is Hazel," said the other. "I have been observing you for a very long time. I am your ally, though against what you are probably unaware." Her voice continued its rampant and seemingly random inflections, emphases placed on odd syllables and words, making her difficult to understand. She continued in her dissonant sing-song voice, "For now, rest. Regain your strength. An explanation shall commence when you are able to comprehend what I have to say."

Luth lost consciousness then as her eyes closed, and the world grew quiet, fading beyond her reach.

* * * * *

Within the depths of the Undercity, Irgov shambled through the endless tunnels, the sounds of the unsleeping metropolis echoing noisily past him. The tunnels grew darker as he traveled farther from the city proper. Beyond one bend he came upon a figure standing alert, the latter's stature indicating awareness of Irgov's presence. The figure's eyes shone through a cowl which shrouded any facial features.

"Speak quickly, Mathe," Irgov said tersely, his vacuous cheeks whistling away.

Mathe pulled back his cowl, a stern and serious look on his face fading into a victorious smile. The more upright Forsaken inhaled sharply before speaking.

"We have her."

Chapter 4 - Champions

2007-12-03T12:36:00.000-08:00

Nathanos Blightcaller stood outside the manor at Marris Stead, surveying the landscape of the area now known as the Eastern Plaguelands. From the hill on which the manor rested, he could see a number of miles into the distance.

In other words, he could see very deeply into a vast nothing. A disgusting fog had taken up residence throughout the land, and the plague's magical nature had deformed and twisted most of the wildlife, including the vegetation. Plumes of smoke and ash arose in the far distance, remnants of civilization burned away and destroyed by the Scourge. A neverending cacophony of howling riddled the air, perpetuated by ghosts and spectres as well as demonic hounds and overgrown bats.

The Plaguelands were dead. Haunted, strewn with spirits and skeletal sentinels perhaps, but nonetheless dead. Dead as Nathanos himself.

Nathanos was Forsaken, free from the Lich King's grasp but not from death itself. He lived here, as the effective commander of Forsaken forces in the area. But the Forsaken had little presence here. Merely the occasional lowling sent here on special assignment. Nathanos was constantly alone.

He turned towards the manor and gazed upwardly at it. The windows remained bolted, and wooden planks covered them haphazardly, presumably from the family that once owned the manor seeking to protect themselves from the growing threats outside. Bringing his eyes back down, the front door to the manor remained open, nay, off its hinges to the side of the opening. Bones could be seen strewn about inside, but whose they were, the former owners' or the attackers', no one could be certain.

The undead man then looked to the side of the house, where two monstrous dogs lay dormant, sleeping. The two animals lay in sound respite, a privilege he himself could never partake in. There is no peace in undeath.

He would need to go hunting for their meals again soon, he realized, stroking his chin with a gloved hand. A habitual relic of his past, much like the leathers he wore, enchanted to preserve their strength and colors through the years. He required them this way, green and brown earthen tones to assist his ability to stalk the lands undetected.

He reminisced, recalling those times when his knack for stealth, especially in death, has allowed him to achieve his goals. When he first felt his mind freed from the grasp of the Lich King, he used it to escape from his servitude in the northern ziggurats of Plaguewood, south of Stratholme. He took up "residence" at the Marris Stead, hiding.

It was shortly after that she found him.

Sylvanas Windrunner, former Ranger General of the high elven armies of Silvermoon, had also become one of the Lich King's servants through Arthas, that cursed son of destruction. She found him here, at this Stead. She too had overthrown the Lich King's sway over her mind and now led a force of undead she called "The Forsaken." She sought to reign Nathanos in with them, to have him join her forces.

But there was a history between the two. Nathanos was a ranger himself, and sought training with the elves while he was alive. Training specifically under Sylvanas, which was denied to him as he was human, not an elf. In death, however...

Nathanos' mind filled with bitter thoughts then, he almost did not hear the dogs' growling. His conscious mind snapped back into the present, and he, drawing his two axes, looked out over the nearby landscape. He squinted, cursing himself then for allowing his keen senses to go lax.

At the base of the hill a figure strode forth. A hunched, thin figure, heavily armed and armored. He could see heavy plate mail as well as a pair of swords in the figure's hands. Nathanos looked to his dogs then, and pointed down to the figure. He jerked his head to indicate motion, which was all they needed to jump into an eager, bloodthirsty sprint.

He watched as they tore down the slope. Those two dogs were vicious animals, and if the approaching man was of any threat, they would most likely have him on the ground before a single second passed after engaging. He stepped forward himself in slow pursuit, weapons at the ready.

The hounds got to within 10 yards of the figure and halted. The figure's progress did not cease, and the dogs did not attack.

Who is this, then? It was approaching dusk and light was a commodity Nathanos did not have available. Then, he saw the eyes. Glowing ghostlight. A fellow Forsaken. Shortly after, he saw the hair. Dark, long, and wispy. Followed by body shape. Wider at the hips, thin in the abdomen. This was a woman. And then the face. Empty gaze, blank stare.

Luthehza Dillinger.

The dogs trotted back up to him then, seeming forlorn that they did not get to attack. Nathanos waited in the descending dark for her to come closer.

She stepped up to him, sheathing her weapons as she made those last final steps. She stood in front of him then, her gaze still blank, and her eyes never met his, always staring past him. Her stance was erratic, and she idled back and forth in place. Nathanos never could get used to this one's demeanor.

"Well?" he asked impatiently. He did not sheathe his weapons, as while she may be a fellow Champion of the Forsaken, he would never trust her. Her mind was never with her, he did not even fully know to whom he spoke. As far as fellow Champions went, this one was as near a pure vessel of the Banshee Queen as could be, a mere puppet at best. There was just nothing right about her.

As usual, she uttered no words. She looked around suddenly, to her sides and then behind her, before returning her gaze to look straight ahead, withdrawing from a pouch at her belt a papyrus document bearing the Queen's seal. As he was following her hands with his gaze, he noted a large wound in the girl's stomach, and glistening blood still oozed forth, staining the surrounding armor.

She extended her arm to give Nathanos the document. His gaze never leaving her face, he slowly retrieved it from her hand. A Champion on message delivery? Surely the Queen could put her most trusted servants' time to better use...

He did not read the message immediately, merely waited to see what Luthehza was going to do next, if there was more she might have for him. Her face brought back memories of their first meeting. Much like this most recent one, she had strode forth from the base of the hill, and still with a message. She was not a Champion then, merely a powerful warrior in service to the Forsaken, there as a servant of the Queen to assist him in the Plaguelands. He quickly set her to work killing bats and demonhounds in the surrounding forests as food for his dogs. Eventually she was tasked with the defeat of the larger denizens of the area, and even the Gorger of Stratholme. Nathanos realized quickly her potential, but never could he trust her.

Then, the registry. He remembered a registry kept by the high elves detailing the Ranger General's records of rangers in training. This book may have still existed, and he wanted it.

Luthehza's emptiness suggested he could set her on this task. Devoid of any obvious emotion or even ambition, he felt he actually could trust her in this isntance where others he could not. He specifically ordered her to simply retrieve the book, and not to read it. Contained within would perhaps be Sylvanas' written denial of Nathanos' destiny. He did not want this to be made public knowledge.

When she returned with the book, wounded and caked in blood as usual, she made no obvious indication she had read of its contents. And he really had no reason to believe she did. But something was different about her. When she handed him the book, she did not let go of it instantly as he reached for it, and her gaze locked with his. Somewhere, then, Nathanos thought he could sense sorrow in her eyes. He blinked...and the look was gone. As he yanked the book from her hand, her eyes returned to the stare to which he was accustomed.

He had pondered that meeting often since, but could gain no further insight from it. That face, though...her eyes actually met his for once, and seemed to say "I'm sorry." He just couldn't be sure, as it lasted but an instant.

He glared at her then, asking, "Did you read this?" His voice full of malice, he dropped the book on the ground and drew both weapons. His dogs went to his sides, growling in anticipation.

Luth didn't so much as wince, and her gaze did not change. She did not answer, and turned to depart.

Nathanos really knew nothing of her. Her history was never revealed to him. She was merely a fellow servant to the same power, and at this point in time, his equal, and today delivering to him some new message.

Nathanos mulled over his recent thoughts, and clenched his jaw in apprehension, still holding the note she had given him. Without warning then, she turned, departing back down the hill, same as always. He watched her walk, ensuring she was well away before he opened the note to ingest whatever news it might contain.

As darkness fell, he retreated to within the manor and sat, lighting a candle to read. The moon shone through the clouds, and his dogs howled away, answered and echoed endlessly by all manner of creatures through the night.

Chapter 3 - Peace

2007-11-02T12:41:00.000-07:00

Beneath the burning sun and whirling sandstorms of Silithus, Luth Dillinger, Blood Guard of the Horde and Deathguard Champion of the Forsaken, collapsed to one knee.

Clad in heavy plate armor caked in sand, she held one skeletal hand over her abdomen, and blood seeped forth from a grievous wound, which passed through her fingers and dripped to the ground. She bowed her head, long strands of purple hair draped over her face.

She collapsed further, the metal armor clinking and scraping against itself, and her free hand reached for the sand beneath her to support her weight. She struggled to remain there, and yet her expression did not change. Emotionless, she stared straight at the crest of the dune on which she rested. Her eyes did not blink, her lips did not move. And yet the blood continued to pour.

But beneath her facade, buried...

...was me.

"Is this it? Has it ended, am I free?" I asked. No response. Nothing. Not even the rage that has wracked my conscious mind for as long as I can remember.

I felt my body turn and sit, still holding the wound. I wondered for a moment why the wound was being tended so...I had suffered a hundred wounds, never had they been given so much as a glance before. Through ghost-lit eyes I saw over the dunes, to the carnage I had recently wrought. A company of Twilight Cultists lay dead, slaughtered by my blades while they rested at their camp. It was of them that I took this wound, a polearm to the stomach. It must have cut deep, I realized.

I fell backwards then, head falling to the sand, my eyes now fixed on the sky. I felt my hand let go of the wound, sliding lazily to lay at my side. My legs relaxed til I lay flat on my back.

I coughed, spitting up blood. I could feel my already labored breathing becoming more difficult. "I have collapsed before, this will be no different," I thought. But it was different. There really was nothing. I felt empty.

I wondered then...so many times had I, in reverie, gone back to thoughts of my previous life, only to be wrenched back to the present, the hate coursing through me. I had given up yearning for my past life long ago...but the hate was gone now. Maybe I can be permitted to remember, just this once...

I tried to think back then, while the sun burned into my pallid skin. I remembered the anxiety, the apprehension. Slowly it came back to me. A voice, urging me to flee. I remember being pushed, being deathly afraid. I remember being...upset.

And then, a rush of emotion and feeling, all at once. I was fleeing down well-traveled road, barefoot. I was wearing a simple linen dress, and remember that despite whatever predicament I was in, I felt uncomfortable running, having to hoist the garment to move at such a brisk pace. Through my mind's eye, everything looked peaceful, green grass and a nearby apple orchard, and yet my fractic run spoke a different tale.

I ceased my run then, probably to catch my breath. I turned and looked behind at the road behind me, and saw. There was a town ablaze, pillars of smoke flowing towards the sky. Great fires were visible, and I thought I could hear screaming. I've been through this memory before...

I was jerked back to the present. But why? Where is the hate to deny me my past? The pain of death to remind me of the monster I have become? It was not there.

A light wind kicked up, and the sand with it. And, for the first time in so very long...I felt real pain.

Not the pain of loss, real pain. In my abdomen. I felt the urge to move my hand back to it...and the arm moved. Both arms put hands over the wound...and I felt the moisture of blood there. Alien feelings...

"I can feel...I am in control...what has happened?"

The pain truly erupted then. Writhing, aching hurt surged to my senses. Not the pain of hate, but the hurt of injury. And yet...it reminded me...of life. It eased away, and despite the burning heat of the desert, coldness gripped my being. Some spark of life had returned to me just then, and now...

I closed my eyes. "I am dying," I thought. "Finally, death is here to save me from this loathsome suffering..."

I urged myself to remember, in my final moments. To remember love, happiness. And I did. I remembered my life, the sky, the flowers, townsfolk, smiling, laughter, the smell of dinner, family...my husband.

I could see him now, and not the disembodied face my hatred had formed to taunt me with. In full, alive, happy. He smiled at me. His name was Roderick.

And as darkness closed in on my senses in the harsh climate of Silithus, I could feel myself smile. I died then...and for the first time in so many months, years...I knew peace.

But it was not to last. A very familiar voice spoke to me then, "Luthehza...it is not yet your time...you are not yet finished with your work in this world." The Banshee Queen, Sylvanas. All this distance between myself and the Undercity and her power still holds sway over me. Even this deep, this injured, I am still her champion.

Undeath returned to me in an instant, and with it the hate. Cruelty manned my limbs, forced me to stand. Malice took control of my senses, and disdain of my mind.

I was not yet finished. I would continue in my warpath. I am the Deathguard Champion, and I've more to do. The sun still beating down, I strode forth, both weapons drawn, set to again leave nothing but unrelenting destruction in my wake.

I am, again, buried. Apparently, peace simply is not mine to have.

Chapter 2 - Undercity

2007-11-02T12:18:00.002-07:00

Flickering torchlight glimmered, reflected lightly off the stone masonry of the Undercity sewers. The little tongues of flame shot upward, playfully dancing in the sprawling tunnels, oblivious to the dark that surrounded them. The seeming endlessness, the miles upon miles of dimly lit corridors did little to quiet the dull roar of the never-sleeping city, but in this particular hall two pairs of footsteps clattered off the walls, echoing faintly before fading away. Two Forsaken men walked side-by-side, wordlessly, each seeminginly in his own reverie.

The man on the left, the robed one, was more lively in appearance. However, he possessed a grave demeanor somehow plainly visible through his robes and cowled head. Booted feet protruded from beneath his crimson garments with each step, and his robes trailed shortly behind him, gliding along the stone floor. Faintly within the darkness of his hood could be seen two dimly lit eyes, faint ghostlight barely escaping into the shadows.

His companion this day was a hideous abomination of a man, shrunken and hunched with feet dragging across the floor as though their owner did not have the strength to lift them. His eyes did not glow, and the skin of his face had all but rotted away. Strands of specter-white hair hung loosely from his greenish scalp, and the man's cheeks had been completely eaten away, enabling one to see through his jaw to the other side. He dressed plainly in a stained brown shirt and pants, but wore nothing on his feet, the bones of which scraped loudly against the floor with each step.

As the two continued walking, they came upon an intersection of corridors. They took the path to the left, maintaining their labored pace. At some distance down this hall, the two halted. At the wave of a hand by the man on the left, the torches designated to light the area grew dim, the shadows closing in on them, strangling out the light until it was no more.

In the dark then did the two begin to speak. The shorter man spoke first, his rasping voice airy through his cheeks, "Why the lights, Mathe? The Deathstalkers will be quick to notice your little trick." The bones of his jaw were apparently incomplete, as they cracked and ground against each other noticeably as he spoke.

There was a short pause which eerily hung in the ill-lit air. The undead named Mathe then spoke, his voice more rich, but deep, like the bellowing of a coming storm. "The Dark Lady's agent in Strahnbrad was successful. The town lay in ruin, once more effectively devoid of life."

"As was intended to happen. It's not bad news mind you, but why do you drag me out to the ends of the sewers to inform me?" The shorter man sent his arm out behind him to indicate the tunnels they'd traversed.

Another pregnant pause. The lights faded more, further darkening the surroundings. Mathe then spoke, his voice just as ominous. "There was another spark, Irgov. This one greater than the last."

This time it was Irgov's turn to remain quiet for a moment. "Were you in clairvoyance of the area, Mathe? Did you see what it was, what caused it?"

"Of course."

"Well?"

"She spoke."

This seemed to alarm Irgov. There was a sharp intake of air that whistled through missing teeth. He shifted weight on his bony legs. "Her words, what were they?"

"She asked the Syndicate man if he were married, if he had a wife. I watched her eyes grow bright, then the man answered affirmatively, and was immediately slain." Mathe remained motionless as he spoke matter-of-factly, letting on no emotion through his tone. The darkness weighed down more heavily as the conversation went on. "I have no speculation, as her mind remains blank to us even now. The question she asked lends some indication to a lost love of some kind, but that she is the only one to have uttered such a thing, or anything at all only entombs the situation deeper in mystery."

"Well, what do you plan to do?" asked Irgov, concerned. There was a grinding sound as he clenched his teeth in apprehension.

"We can do naught but wait it seems. Every time this has happened, it has increased in intensity. I will speak to a contact in the Apothecary Society for the time being, hopefully I can glean some greater awareness of the situation from him."

An aura of unease set itself about Irgov. "Perhaps we should warn Starvis?"

"I do not think the situation has yet warranted itself that high of an acknowledgement, Irgov."

"Well, how much time do we have, Mathe? You would remember well what happened with the Forsaken women who have exhibited these symptoms in the past." Irgov frowned, visibly concerned.

"I do remember well, Irgov." Mathe nodded, the first time he'd visibly moved since he stopped walking. "But without understanding, we are without a means of prevention. We cannot afford to let this continue happening, to one woman after another."

Irgov sighed, his vacuous cheeks dispersing the air from his withered lungs. "I suppose you are correct there. But it will fall upon us, you realize. Help on this matter I suspect will be very limited. The Queen does not enjoy having her Champions studied. Nathanos is a testament to that," he continued, leveling a skeletal finger at Mathe. "Our souls are at stake here."

"We will continue our work in secret. Now, I must depart."

"Do you know where the Dillinger girl is being sent next?"

"Yes I do." A streak of light flashed from within the hood as Mathe emitted a toothy grin. "Silithus."

The lights went back to normal in an instant, and Irgov found himself standing alone, save for the presence of a rat, which by the looks of its exposed ribs had seen better days. Irgov stretched his shoulders a bit, then stood there, hunched, in deep thought. "Silithus?" he finally whispered to himself. "What on Azeroth would be happening in Silithus?" he asked of no one in particular, stroking his chin as he watched the rat drag itself accross the floor sluggishly.

After a time, Irgov trodded back down the tunnels whence he came. The sounds of the city continued, the endless churning of sludge and screams of the dying neverending.

Chapter 1 - Strahnbrad

2007-11-02T12:18:00.001-07:00

Strahnbrad. It's been so long, that I can scarcely remember…or is it that I don't want to remember? Yet even now the whispers from the past burn within whatever conscious remains. It was here that I…I lived. I suppose that I may have led a happy life. I remember being married, and that is something that makes one happy, right? Alas, I do not know, for whenever I think back to the times before I became Forsaken, my mind is enveloped in rage, and I do not know that the memories I have are real or created by this malignance.

But I do know that I was married, to some man. At some point, he was taken from me. I know not how. At least…I used to not know. I can hear his voice now…a snippet of a moment full of tension…

"Luth! Run!"

And then the anticipated onset of hate. It courses through my reverie like a river of blood, flooding through to my conscious awareness. My blades dart forth, cutting through flesh, another man falling in agony. I mindlessly consume some of it to heal my own wounds and move on, deaf to the screams of pain I leave in my wake.

Why do I return to these thoughts? Why must I always come back to them?

"Go, get out of here!"

The voice sounds forceful, and yet…weak. The image of a face…emotion…unfurling into fire as the rage builds again. The clashing of steel, and then the raking of bare skin by claw-like fingers interrupt my daydreams. The ensuing scream is cut short by a deft stab in the back, and, pushing the body away with one leg, I continue my rampage.

Maybe these men have wives, much like I had a husband. There is one left. Removing the blade from his hand (or rather, his hand altogether), I lift him by his neck. His one remaining hand trying to wrench his body free, I can hear myself ask, "A wife, do you have?" A momentary look of confusion floods his face. "Yes, yes!" he croaks, attempting vainly to nod in emphasis. An obvious lie, perhaps uttered in the belief that I may spare him. An agent of the Banshee Queen, however, does not leave survivors. I slice at his abdomen and release my grip, letting him fall to the ground and bleed to death.

Why did I ask him that question? My morbid musings have never manifested themselves into speech before.

"There is no time, Luth!" Eyes filled with determination and love, moisture glistens near the nose…a tear? I can see behind the face tongues of fire and pillars of smoke rising from somewhere in the distance.

My mind goes blank. I stand alone, in silence, with the rest of the dead as the cold wind blows down these empty streets and burned-out husks of what were once homes. Much how I last left the town of Strahnbrad.

Prologue

2007-11-02T12:17:00.001-07:00

"Luthehza."

I have naught but died, again and again, since this rebirth. The agony that came with my first death continues to this day. The burning, biting anguish, my flesh torn and cut by blades and scorched by fire. But I am always brought back.

"It is not yet your time."

Is this life? This breathing, twitching mass of malady and suffering? With my hands I have held weapons of destruction, to enact upon my enemies a will that knows nothing of kindness or love. I cannot create, except that by which I may destroy.

"Serve me."

My memories...

"Serve the Forsaken."

Turned backwards and bent into nightmares, shades of crimson, oozing blood. I feel nothing but...rage. Seething, blazing hatred. Buried beneath the malignant fires and endless, chaotic eidola of a vengeance I never knew in life.

"Become my Champion."

I destroy because it is my purpose. It is all I know. And all I have known for what must have been an eternity.

"Unleash your fury upon our enemies."

With a blackened heart, I emerge from the darkness with that purpose. And if I fail, I am resurrected from ash and dust to relive that purpose, with a renewed sense of malice towards the enemies of the Forsaken.

"Now..."

Beneath it all...I yearn...to feel. The pleasures of life, that they were mine. Laughter that isn't born of a desire to hurt or enact vicious cruelties. Freedom...from this curse. From the voice...

"...and forever."

...the voice of the Banshee Queen.

Introduction

2007-11-02T12:02:00.001-07:00

Here I will post the chapters of a little fanfic for a World of Warcraft character of mine, Luthehza. The first three chapters are already written, and will be posted here shortly after this one. The rest is still for me to write.